


Hearts In Space, Mk-II

by harotype (soredewa)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Compliant, Empathy, M/M, Newtypes, Newtypes (Gundam Wing), Newtypes (in general), Snark, Tea, discussion of consensual violence, references to things that happened elsewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 13:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soredewa/pseuds/harotype
Summary: On the first February 14 after the formation of the ESUN, and having very little awareness of Valentine's Day on a personal level, Quatre R. Winner receives a few things even he had no idea he was getting— all courtesy of one visitor.





	Hearts In Space, Mk-II

_AC 196_

 

“Heero!” Quatre rushed to him, blanket in tow, quieter than he would have liked to be.  “I have no idea how I can know you’re here and you can almost give me a heart attack at the same time, but you do.”

Surprisingly — or not? — Heero’s arms folded around him as Quatre wrapped the blanket over him.  “You know, you’re very damp and cold, _habib qalbi.”_

Was it the growing list of ‘uniquely Heero’?— but breaking into the family colony, let alone his house, managing to be his Heart of Space, and currently having his hands firmly fastened on Quatre’s backside in a shifting, proprietary way… there was a lot that was his and no one else’s.

“Give me a minute.  We’ll both be warm.”

Resting his forehead against the shock of messy brown hair, Quatre remembered how visible the greenish tinge was at this distance.  “You missed me, or just this part?”

“You.  This first.  Why, what did you miss about me?”

Quatre flushed pink, enough to warm them both.  Heero smirked.

“See?”

“I missed everything.  Except feeling you, because that doesn’t stop.  But not feeling you like this.”

Heero pulled him even closer.

“You probably want to go grab what I brought for you.”  At Quatre’s puzzled look, he continued. “I had to drop it so I could—“

“Right,” Quatre said, getting the picture.  “You’re not coming, too?”

“If I go out, people will wonder how I got in.”

“I see.  Better go and beat the security team, then.”

Heero scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it over.  “That should be it.”

“Well, stay here, sit down, I’ll come back, damp and chilly, and we’ll do this again.  If someone comes in with tea, please just let them leave unscathed.”

 

Quatre stood quietly by the door, plastic bag in hand, trying not to laugh.  Heero, with a book in his hand and his socks in the other, was dragging his toes through an acre of plush carpet.

“Does that feel good?” Instantly, the flash, faster than he could move or speak, and all he could do was try not to gasp or moan…

Heero looked up, curiously.  Quatre exhaled, very slowly, focusing on the here and now.

 _“Wuthering Heights?_  It’s not that cold out.”

“Was this your father's office?”  It didn’t look like a sixteen year-old’s, did it, Quatre thought, with the tufted leather sofa, or the antique table, or the stone fireplace, or the elaborate lamps, or the enormous desk, or the books from floor to ceiling...

“Library.  Believe it or not, this has been mine since I was… ten? I don't have too many visitors, though.  And all the copies of that book we have are in here. My father must have detested it more than I can say.”

The tea and sandwiches he had asked for were there, and they took turns drinking from the only cup.  It brought back memories of a battered, single vacuum flask, and rain on canvas, and Quatre couldn’t quite be bothered to find something else, not with Heero’s eyes and lips so close.

“I said hi to Sandrock.”  The corner of Heero’s mouth twitched from the incursion, giving some clue as to the way he’d gained access.  Quatre decided not to ask what else he'd seen.

“I didn't know you two were on speaking terms these days.”

“You like keeping him close.”

“He means something to me.”  Quatre finished the cup, swallowing.  “Heero, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“You know I’m coming.”

“Still.”

“I…”

“Not used to paying visits?”

“I thought I’d see if it could be a surprise.”

“There’s ‘surprise’ and there’s ‘I really don’t need you in a shootout with the security forces’.  Do you think I want my employees to get killed, unnecessarily, because of you? Or you to get hurt because of me?”

Heero clapped a hand over his mouth, but couldn’t handle the snicker in his eyes or the shaking of his shoulders.

Quatre sighed.  “What?”

“You don’t know how much fun it was doing this.”

Quatre ducked his head, capturing Heero’s lips, swift and heated.  “More fun than that?”

Heero shook his head.

“Don’t risk the one for the other next time.”  He sat back. “Are you going to tell me who I need to terminate?”

“I can tell you how to fix a couple of things, Quatre, but why should I lock myself out?”

“You're smirking again.”  Quatre frowned.

“You want your employees to get _fired_ because of me.”

“No, I don't.  I’m not the only one who lives here, who works here.  People — like my family — rely on me for their safety.  I need to know if personnel need changing just because a deadly terrorist and former assassin broke in here to have some tea.”

“With the deadly terrorist who runs the place.” Heero was matter-of-fact. Quatre had to resist an urge to slap him.

Then was more startled by the notion they might both _like_ it.  He subsided into careful silence.

“Don't forget what I brought,” Heero said, finally.

“A chocolate cake?”  Quatre had to admit he was startled, blinking into the plastic cover.  “You broke in here for this?”

“It has cherries.”

“Oh.”

“I made it.”

“Oh.”

Lacking cutlery, they used one of the family drawerful of ceremonial trowels and their hands.

“It’s excellent,” Quatre proclaimed, tongue carefully swiping at his fingers.  He was certainly used to his share of both fine sweets and simple, satisfying ones, and this was both — luscious fruit against a dark, pitch-perfect chocolate cake and smooth frosting.  

“You make noises when you eat.” Heero mused, an odd spark in his eyes. “I think it's just dessert.”

“Heero, I most certainly do not.”

“You do.”

Quatre’s tone stayed even and bland. “Then I'm a wretched host and my father would be horrified.  Again.”

“He isn't watching you now.”

Quatre took another bite, one that seemed to be purpose-mined with an exceptional cherry.

There might or might not have been the faintest rosy stain rising over Heero’s cheekbones.  Then again, it might have been the fire.

 

Emerging from behind his desk with the case, Quatre pulled the violin out from the case.

“I have something for you, too _._ Give me a second,” he said, turning pegs and plucking strings.

Quatre played, just briefly, part of what he remembered from that day in Sanc. 

Heero stared, transfixed from the first bar. “So it really was you. I thought… I wasn't sure... I mean, Epyon wouldn't have shown me you.”  He was very pale, in the firelight.  Quatre wasn’t sure if the ghost was memories of Epyon or Quatre himself.  “Thank you. I should have known.”

His arms were wide open, violin hanging from one hand, bow in the other.  “You don’t have to thank me. Just tell me if you like this one.” He'd intended to play Heero the thing he’d been composing in bits and scratches and stored memory, ever since Earth had risen up and embraced them again.  

This was far sooner than he'd expected for a premiere, though.

With memories of Heero rolling behind his eyes, Quatre let bow and fingers re-touch strings.  Now his music went from sunshine to battle to lingering seclusion at twilight, suggestions of things, notions Quatre couldn't shake — things they hadn’t even done yet — and finishing with the triumph at MO-II, he saw Heero's eyes had turned to Space.

Quatre felt very still, laying his instrument aside, unable to do a thing but hang on that smoky blue gaze, pierced with starlight.

Heero took his hand, and kissed it, and held on.  “Don't move,” he said, amusement flashing through his eyes and lips.  He must have felt the joke was getting old.

“Not moving.”  Quatre was still enjoying it.  Certainly the memories.  Also Heero pulling him so close…

“That mark under your jaw… it's worse than it was.  So it's the violin,” Heero murmured.

“It's the violin,” Quatre confirmed, clutching Heero's biceps so hard he would, on anyone else, likely have left his own bruises.  Heero didn't seem to care, and it was that or drop to the floor. “No one—” He struggled for speech, breath, reason, grabbed the thinnest threads “—has kissed me there before.”

“Why there?”

Quatre was very grateful for him dispensing with _‘nobody else has kissed you, anywhere, period’_.  “Not sure, but I can't stay standing when you do it…”

Heero was tugging at his shirt, cradling his back, slipping his fingers against the scar on his belly.  “You're okay now.”

 _“Mashallah,_ I am.”  Couldn’t help shivering, still. “Were you trying to touch me again?”  Almost a joke.

Almost.

“I…” The roughness in Heero's voice was uncharacteristically unsure. “Quatre, I missed you.”

“I'm fine now,” Quatre repeated. “I should probably touch you.”

“Here?”  It was confirmation, Quatre saw; not logistics, not surprise — though there was a strange, sweet hint of disbelief in his eyes.

“It is my study; I can do what I want.  Not that we’re likely to be disturbed, although the door does lock.”  It hadn’t even occurred to him before; he slipped over and did just that. It didn't exactly matter what Heero said; the drifts of longing and excitement coming from him were so strong, they might as well have been physical touches. “I think I learned a thing or two from a friend.”

Almost more than total pacifism — if it weren’t so selfish — he wanted Heero, he wanted what they made between them, and Heero was here, and Quatre hadn’t been born and inculcated not to seize opportunities when they kissed you senseless.

 

“Should— should I take your shirt off?”  Quatre tilted his head, as though assessing a plan of action.  He’d been running in corporate/leader mode so long, it was hard to break, even like this.  Hesitation and arousal weren’t exactly helping.

“I've got a blanket.”  Heero shrugged.

“Good point.”  Quatre eased him out of the brown-gray turtleneck, leaving him in soft patterned wool, warming his own hands on a bare chest and shoulders.  Heero’s skin was smooth, largely, for everything that body had been through. Quatre wanted to touch him, and at the same time didn’t feel as though he could move.  He kept his eyes down on the planes of that beautiful torso, remembering when it was more familiar. “You know… I wake up in the morning, and half the time I expect you’ll be there.  Seems like it was so long ago.”

Heero folded the blanket back around them.  It took Quatre half a second to realize it was a hug.  Sometimes there weren’t any words, but he knew Heero understood.  It lasted until Quatre’s fingers strayed to his lower back, played right at the edges of fabric and skin.  Heero shot him an amused look and tugged him to the carpet.

“You wear pants now.” Shaky fingers unbuttoned and unzipped the jeans in question.  “Heero, this is… it's really, um…” So much for his eloquence.

“You're getting off on it.  Dealing with my clothes.”

“You can tell?”

“Your voice.  Your face. And you just told me.”

Quatre paused, except he'd never paused with his hand down Heero’s pants before.

“Well.  At least part of you became very warm…” The silky hardness filling his hand, the mild shock that extra skin really made something he was totally unfamiliar with, but it was _Heero,_ above all it was Heero.

He was so heavy and hard in Quatre’s fingers.   Quatre experimentally stroked, and rubbed, and finally squeezed Heero in his pianist’s grip, watching his face.

“Does that feel good?” he said, hoarsely.  “Tell me what you want.”

 

Those blue eyes had disappeared for the moment, keeping their own counsel under Heero’s dark lashes.  All he could see was that ferocious blush through a mop of hair. It didn’t balance their ratio there, not even remotely, but it was interesting.  Quatre turned pink in surges, swam in heat, and the color and embarrassment seemed somewhat natural on him, the times he’d seen it reflected. All Heero seemed to manage were his cheekbones and that kissable throat.  Difficult and startling, and unnervingly sexy. He might have to figure out how to see it more.

“It does.  I don’t mind it rough.  Or slow.” Heero’s voice was thick, pulling the words in.  “You’d have an easier time with lubrication, though…”

“Oh,” Quatre said, feeling foolish.  He couldn’t go anywhere to get anything, and he didn’t even think Heero would let him, somehow.  “Sorry about this, Heero.” He spat into his palm, feeling his face burn yet again.

Heero cupped the side of his face and forced Quatre to look at him.  “Don’t be stupid.” He kissed him, taking full advantage of the warmth and slide of it.  “You don’t think I’d _rather_ have it from your mouth?”

Quatre was still staring when Heero spat into his own hand and then rubbed his cock, leaving it faintly glistening, even when shadowed.  “Better?”

Quatre’s fist was clenched, moisture trickling.  He moved his hand back to where it originally had been, now much slipperier.  “Is it?”

Heero sighed.  The rest of him went limp.

There they sat, backs solidly against Quatre’s desk.  Mostly, Heero leaned on his shoulder, Quatre’s free arm drawing him in.  For a while there wasn’t a sound in the room except the flames in the fireplace and the soft murmurs from two throats.

“Heero, I don’t know what I’m doing, I think.”  The only experience he had was self-gained. Heero didn’t seem to mind.  “But you feel so good, I can’t stop.”

“Don’t,” Heero choked out.

Why should it be so intriguing?  He had one himself, and yet all Heero’s cock and warm scrotum and rough, dark hair were doing was making him harder.  Occasionally, Heero shifted his hand to a different position or pressure, and the touch on his hand sparked something in Quatre that threatened to burn him clear through.

Strange.  He was used to Heero being still, he was used to Heero being terse, he was even getting used to Heero teasing him.  He wasn't used to these quiet gasps and whimpers — and his name, the odd syllabic strain and caressing Heero gave it and the way it sounded better and better; sounds he’d never heard, but sweeter and more pleasurable than any instrument he'd ever had.

“You make noises, too…” he murmured.

Heero's blue eyes went wide.  Quatre kissed him.

“Make more, _ya rouhi…_ Make more,” he instructed.

After a few minutes, he found he _did_ know what he was doing.  Either it was the normal tactical, tactile part of his brain, or — something whispered more quietly — it was the Heart of Space, telling him new things, useful things, things to excite and please.  Things he'd never dreamed it would say, but then he'd never dreamed that the mystery of it was Heero, ever— not up until that moment in Space when he just knew.

Heero just had a hold on him, between his stroking physicality and his beautiful eyes and the way he was who he was.  Literally, when he gripped his chin and all Quatre could see was indigo blue. Fascinated and thrilled and aroused too much to care, Quatre was enjoying it, immensely.

_You know I’m coming._

He did, he did, he understood it with his bare toes in the rug, and he felt it now, but he was so enthralled, he could sense it inside Heero, not just in his body.  Heero’s pleasure felt so much like his own, Quatre wondered if it was wicked. Then thought about sharing a body, not just a bed, with Heero. Then stopped thinking entirely.

Heero kissed him, moaning his climax down Quatre’s throat.  His lips sucked a careful trail down Quatre’s neck, slowly, before he stopped moving entirely.

Quatre held him, cleaned him, tucked him back into place.  Kissed his lips, softly, and his cheek, tenderly, and his forehead, gently.  “You’re so wonderful; do you know that?  You just get more and more amazing.”

His eyes fluttered open, looking like gem-blue glass that had been silvered.  “My heart… does things around you.  Just you.”

It was an ordinary gesture — and it seemed significant that Quatre couldn't remember how many times he'd reached for Heero's hand at this point — but now Heero instantly tangled their fingers together, sunk to the hilt, and all Quatre could feel was warmth, like an extension of what they'd just done.  “Heero.”

“You make me feel good, Quatre.  Like you said to me that time. It’s true now; you do.”

They sat, until Heero’s eyes were a normal blue, and his mouth was a normal frown.  “Wait. Why didn't you let me—?”

“I didn't.  I did when… as I was touching you.”  He’d realized it, embarrassed and confused at the tangled empathy more than anything.  “Funny. Still felt incredible, though.”

Quatre grabbed a clean linen napkin from the table, stuffed it into his pants, then popped another bite of Heero's cake in his mouth.

 

“You stopped making noises,” Heero noted, later.  Quatre had pulled him to the sofa closer to the fire.  His blond head was satisfyingly heavy pressed against Heero, bright in the glow.  His teeth continued to make an acquaintance with Heero’s fingers.

“At least you’ve reassured me they’re probably linked solely to you.” Resting there with his face on Heero's naked stomach, Heero's blood and breath was running underneath his cheek, his skin, his closed eyelids.  Quatre thought he might not move again.

Heero wiped a smudge of frosting off his lip.

Quatre sucked and bit at Heero's fingers, a sensuous light in his eyes.  “It is very good cake. I rather shamefully enjoy having you feed me.” He ran his palm over Heero's bare chest.  “Like this, too.”

Heero raised an eyebrow down at him.  

“All right, I enjoy having you do nearly anything involving me, so there you go.  Perfectly sensible.”

Heero leaned down and kissed him; lingering, teasing at his lips and tongue until Quatre finally made a thoroughly nonsensical noise, again.

Quatre shifted his head into Heero’s lap, anything but immune to what was so close.  “Who would have thought,” he said, staring into the fire, “it would be better without me in a hospital bed?”

“Was it... not, before?”  Heero sounded about fifty shades more cautious than normal.  “I thought—”

“No.”  Quatre cut him off, not meaning to go that way at all, and flipped over to stare up at him.  “It was still fantastic.” He broke off the gaze, then, rolled back to the fire. “I’m sorry, Heero.”

Fingers traced unknown patterns on his back.  “Tell me what you want, Quatre. It goes both ways.”

Desires churned inside him, then; his fingers gripped Heero’s leg.  The most recent and unsettling, somehow, seemed safest.  “Would you enjoy it if I hit you?  Slapped you, I mean,” he said, as evenly as he didn't remotely feel.

“Under the right circumstances, yes.”

The painful satisfaction of _"I knew it'._ He was getting mocked now, clearly, by the Heart of Space, and it was a snarl he couldn't understand.  Quatre sighed.  “And those would be...?”

"If you'd hit me, we wouldn't have had cake or music.  Maybe we'd be getting around to it."  Both of them, naked.  On the carpet.  Clothes torn off.  A battle like they hadn't had in quite a while.  Quatre saw it very, very clearly; he just couldn't make up his mind whether he craved or detested it.  Or both. 

Or something in-between.  "Heero, why...?"

"It's just a possibility.  A... thing."  His fingers were soothing in Quatre's hair, all out of contrast to the dark, potent fantasy.

“Then you mean I _should?_ I've never hit anyone in my life.  Not like that.  I don't want things between us getting violent again.  And…” Right, this item needed to be tabled.

“Heero, if anyone had asked me this morning about having you stripped off with a cherry chocolate cake, I think I would have said that that was enough.”

Heero was quiet.  Quatre wondered if he’d gotten away with it.

“Planning to smuggle me into your bed tonight, Master Winner?”  The words were a combination of deadly serious and not especially so at all; combined with the source, Quatre found it electrifying.

Pillowed on Heero’s thigh, still, his voice was quiet; his eyes were jewel-bright in the flames. “Yes.  Are you asking just because you want to hear it? Because you can hear me thinking it?  More like, ‘are you planning to be there waiting for me?’.  You know where I sleep, don't you? — I know how your mind works. Yes.”

A minute of that soaking in was enough to feel what he needed from Heero.  Unfiltered desire — then conflict.

Quatre stared at the shadowy ceiling.  “You can’t possibly want to leave.” Truth; conversational, uncontroversial.  Even as he was too startled to be indignant, he felt he shouldn’t have bothered, once he knew.

“I don’t.  I have to.”

Heero shifted off the sofa, retrieved his shirt, and pulled it back on.

 

“I’ve got to get back.”  No such thing as a fast trip out in lunar orbit.  Even if Heero was headed back to L1, it would be days.

He’d just have to think it had taken him the same time to get here.  “It's fine. I might not have let you go.”

“School.”

“Do you like it?  You know you’re the only one of us who ever went.”

“We’re reading _Wuthering Heights.”_

“Is it any good?  Something about having eight copies made me open one once and shut it.”

“Parts of it are like this uncomfortable reminder of me and Relena.”

“I hope not.  Do you want to take that one?”

“It’s old, isn't it?”

“Only about 300 years or so.  But age doesn’t confer value. I’ve seen it; that one’s definitely marked, and not 300 years ago.”

Heero’s kiss tasted like chocolate, like hope and regret and things echoing inside him Quatre couldn't decipher.

“I'll see you when someone decides to shoot at me, I suppose.  Or Zero needs a tune-up.”

“Or call and we'll talk about the rest of your agenda.”  Even as Quatre started against him, his fingers were very gentle against Quatre's violinist mark.  His lips were rather less so on the other side of his neck. “I came because I wanted to see you. I'm not leaving just because I have to go.”

He wasn't unforgettable; he was indescribable.  Indelible. Quatre almost smiled. _“Habib qalbi…_ you couldn't leave me if you wanted to.”

“Then my only choice is to see you again.”

 

Plenty of cake left.  Plenty to occupy his thoughts all night or in a hot bath, like what it meant that he'd come without being touched, without particularly trying to… and at the same moment as Heero.  Because of Heero.

 

_No self-control, at all.  Feeling what you want to feel; that’s a joke, not empathy.  Or… Heero’s feelings are very strong. Especially for me. I’m not used to touching the Heart of Space… or not like this._

_You're still my friend,_ he thought, _my rather inextricably, passionately, uniquely bonded friend — but are you my lover?_

_I seem to be mad for you again… we were at ‘Zoning and Emotional Range Omitted’, and you in my hand, and my heart, and maybe this was easier with that damned mobile suit._

 

Should you expect someone to stay?  Was it selfish of him? He’d defeated the security systems for a cake.  Just to bring him cake, and touch his ass again (honestly, Heero wasn't much of an angel or a soldier around him, steadily becoming less and less of both ever since they'd met, and the thought still made Quatre smile).  He didn't come for what happened, though, not coming in a breathtaking glory on the floor, not feeding someone in front of a fire, which made this…

His own fault.   _I gave him more than he asked for._

Guilt, his despised companion, came wrapping him in in suffocating arms.

_I want to have enough time that we trust each other with all our feelings, not just our lives and our bodies.  I don’t know when that’s going to be.  And I want to wake up and see you again._

It was a thought that carried him through a long bath and a bed with pieces of Heero's emotions, lying there beside him.

There was a doodle at the bottom of the cake plate, Quatre discovered, finger brushing through crumbs; a matching one he found on his next visit to discuss the situation with Sandrock, as it happened.  Hearts and stars.  Particular little, bright things.  Life in the ocean of space, like the way he still felt and felt Heero, so far away. 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for both the "Japanese celebration of V-day" theme and the "first date" (kinda) one.
> 
> Japanese Valentine's — Multi-day trip in space and breaking and entering aside, if you give someone homemade chocolate ("honmei choco") for February 14 in Japan, you are *serious* about the relationship.  If Heero could explain this, we wouldn't have any fun at all. 
> 
> Arabic glossary:
> 
> Habib qalbi - "Love of my heart"
> 
> Mashallah - "Thank God".  More literally, "God willed it".  (The opposite of inshallah, "if God wills it".)
> 
> Ya rouhi - "O my soul"


End file.
